Night Fall

“Right.” The lady, then, knew what name Don Juan was using that day, so apparently, they’d done this before, which probably meant this was not a one-night stand.

I looked again at the signature, but the light was not good, though the handwriting looked feminine. I said, “Let’s go upstairs.”

We left the archives room with Mr. Rosenthal stealing backwards glances at my untidiness.

Upstairs in the lobby, I put the pink slip on the front desk under the bright desk lamp, and I asked Peter, “Do you have a magnifying glass?”

He retrieved a square magnifier from behind the desk, and I looked at the faint carbon signature.Jill Winslow. I looked at it closely, focusing on each letter.Jill Winslow.

Peter was trying to steal a look at the pink slip, so I put it in my pocket, along with his magnifying glass. I motioned Mr. Rosenthal toward the library, and we entered the dark room. I said to him, “Knowing what you do about this matter, and having been in the hotel business-I assume for many years-do you think the female guest in Room 203 would have signed her real name to the video library receipt?”

He pondered that a moment, then replied, “I think so.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Well… it’s the same in the bar, or the restaurant, or the sundry counter… you’re asked to sign your name and room number, and you sign truthfully because the staff may go right into the computer while you’re there-or you may be asked to show your room key, or even a driver’s license at any point in the transaction.” He added, “Also, it’s just a natural reflex to sign your true name when asked.”

“Unless you’re traveling incognito. You know, having an affair. The guy didn’t check in using his real name.”

“Yes, but that’s different. Signing for a book or videotape is an inconsequential transaction. It’s best to use your real name and room number to avoid the risk of embarrassment.”

“I like the way you think, Mr. Rosenthal.”

“That’s very scary.”

Mr. Rosenthal had a dry, almost sarcastic sense of humor. I bring out the best in people.

I left the library, and Mr. Rosenthal followed.

He asked me, “Do you need to keep that receipt?”

“Yes.”

He made a little joke and said, “Then I’ll need a receipt for the receipt.”

I chuckled politely and said, “Put it on my room bill.”

We were at the front desk now, and he asked me, “Are you staying with us tonight, Mr. Corey?”

“I am. I got a good off-season rate.”

Mr. Rosenthal asked Peter, “What room did you give Mr. Corey?”

“Room 203.”

“Of course.” Mr. Rosenthal asked me, “Do you think the room will speak to you?”

I replied, “It already did.” I said to Peter, “I need a sevenA.M. wake-up call.”

Peter noted it in his book and asked, “Do you need help with your luggage, or directions to the Moneybogue Bay Pavilion?”

“I do not. Thank you for your help, gentlemen.”

I walked out of the lobby into the cool, foggy night.

I got into my rental car, drove to the Moneybogue Bay Pavilion parking lot, took my overnight bag, climbed a set of stairs, and entered Room 203.

A voice in my head, or in the room, said,Eureka!

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I sat at a writing desk and turned on the lamp. I placed the pink receipt on the desk and looked at it with the magnifier.

The hand that wrote “A Man and a Woman” was definitely feminine and matched the handwriting on the date, room number, and the signature. Someone else, presumably the librarian, had written “Reynolds” and “Not Returned.”

I once took a handwriting analysis course at John Jay College, and there was a lot to be learned from a person’s handwriting and signature. Unfortunately, I didn’t remember much of the class. But I do remember that there was a distinct difference in handwriting when a person signed his or her real name as opposed to a made-up name or a forgery. This signature looked real. Maybe because I wanted it to be real. Maybe I was making this up.

I stood, turned on all the lamps, and went to the wall unit. Beneath the television was an empty shelf, and I now noticed in the lamplight that there were four small circles on the shelf-actually, discolorations in the white wood finish. They were the size of a dime, in a rectangular pattern. Obviously, this was where the VCR player had sat on its rubber pads until about three years ago.

This was not exactly a monumental discovery, but I feel good when I can physically verify what someone has told me.

I sat again at the small desk and dialed the cell phone of Dom Fanelli. I had no idea where he’d be at this hour, but the nice thing about cell phones is that it doesn’t matter.

He answered, “Hello?”

I could hear loud music in the background. “It’s your partner.”

“Hey, goombah! What’s with this Bayview Hotel shit on my Caller ID? What the hell are you doing there?”

“I’m on vacation. Where are you?”

“My phone started vibrating in my pants, and I thought it was Sally. Sarah. Whatever. Sarah, say hello to-”

“Dom, I can barely hear you.”

“Hold on.” A minute later, he said, “I’m outside. I was following a homicide suspect, and he went into this club on Varick Street. This is a tough job. What’s up?”

“I need a make on a name.”

“Again? What happened to the names I gave you? Did you go to Philly?”

“I did. What I need now-”

“Now you’re in Westhampton Beach. Why don’t you go home?”

“Why don’tyou go home? Okay, the name is-”

“I tidied up your apartment. The cleaning lady will be there tomorrow. Fridays, right?”

“Unless she died. Listen-Jill Winslow.” I spelled it. “I’m thinking she’s maybe thirties, forties-”

“That narrows it down.”

“I don’t have anything solid on her, but she checked in here for a romp in the hay with a guy on a summer weekday-July 17, 1996.”

“Familiar date.”

“Yeah. The guy used an alias, so he’s probably married, and she may or may not be. But I think she is-”

“Married women are the safest if you’re married.”

“That’s what your wife says about her boyfriends. Okay, I’m thinking she lives on Long Island, but maybe Manhattan. How far would you drive for a romantic rendezvous?”

“I once drove to Seattle to get laid. But I was nineteen. What’s the farthest you’ve ever driven to get laid?”

“Toronto. Okay, so-”

“How about that FBI lady in D.C.? What’s farther? Toronto or Washington?”

“Doesn’t matter. You win with Seattle. Okay,listen — First, tap into DMV-there’s a tan Ford Explorer involved, at least five years old, but it may be his, not hers, and it could be sold by now. Then, tap into ChoicePoint and LexisNexis for a property search, divorce records, and so forth. I’m thinking upscale neighborhood on Long Island, so also check utility records with Long Island Power Authority for Winslows. But she could live in Manhattan, so also check Con Ed. Obviously get into telephone records, but they’re probably unlisted. Remember, all this stuff may not be inher name, but in her husband’s, so-”

“Here it is. Jill Winslow, Number 8 Maple Lane, Locust Valley, Long Island, New York, 1996 Ford Explorer, tan, husband’s name Roger. Just kidding. You should play with your computer, too. I’ve got homicides to solve.”

“This may be the biggest homicide you ever helped solve.”

There was a silence, then Dom Fanelli said, “I understand.”

“Good. And also check death records.”

“You think she died? Was she offed?”

“I hope not.”

“What are you on to? Tell me, in case you get killed.”

“I’ll leave you a note.”

“No joke, John-”

“Call me tomorrow at this number. Room 203. Leave a message if I’m not in. You’re Mr. Verdi.”